What You Give
by coolbyrne
Summary: On a mission he never wanted to do, Gibbs gets the chance to do something he never did. Gibbs/Kate implied. Gibbs/Sloane potential. (All 3 chapters posted at once.)
1. Chapter 1

…..

A/N: Longer note at the end of the chapter, but a few short ones here. First, this is not my fandom at all (!), but I felt compelled to write this anyway. I haven't watched NCIS since Kate died, so apologies if some of my plot details aren't canon. Second, the song is "Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night, and lastly, the fox in Pripyat was inspired by this video: watch?v=NtssB03vawQ

…..

It's not what you got, it's what you give/

It ain't the life you choose, it's the life you live

"What You Give"- Tesla

…..

The music was almost loud enough to drown out the rotors, though neither seemed to bother the passenger, eyes shut, face passive. Despite the cacophony of man and machine, by all appearances, he was using the flight time to catch some shut-eye. Or at least faking it. The M40A1 was held loosely but steadfastly between his knees, his large hands holding it with a familiarity that every soldier would recognize. He wore the camo uniform with casual confidence, as if it was just another Sunday. Beer in the fridge. Football game on.

Of course, it wasn't. You don't fly 4800 miles from Washington to Kyiv via a military base in Baden-Württemberg to Pripyat in a declassified Navy helicopter to have a beer and watch a game, but he knew more than most the importance of not giving it more credence than needed. A simple mission, no different than armchair coaching the offense on a 3rd-and-14 in the redzone. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I'm trying to figure out what's older- this bird or our passenger."

The young man in the pilot's seat had been jawing all flight, rambling about anything from his son's first day at kindergarten to whatever show his wife was watching on Netflix. His co-pilot had been noncommittal the entire time, and Gibbs was fairly certain she only had her headset turned on for the take off. He wished he had thought of doing the same. It was clear the pilot was trying to engage Gibbs, even if he pretended to be talking to his partner. The barbed arrow about his age finally hit the mark.

Without opening his eyes, he volleyed back flatly, "I'm tryin' to figure out if you're old enough to listen to Three Dog Night."

"Hey! He does speak!" He slapped his co-pilot on the arm. "Shit! No wonder your code name is 'Salty Dog'."

"Just lucky, I guess."

Now that he found out what got Gibbs' talking, there was no stopping him. "Sorry I don't have any Buddy Holly, but vinyl doesn't play so well in the bird." The pilot grinned under his aviator visor. "And for the record, it was my old man's favourite song. I play it for luck."

A line formed between his brows. "Preston," he said, recalling the name stitched on the man's uniform. "Cal Preston your old man?"

"One and the same," he replied.

Colonel Cal Preston, 40-year military. Liver cancer. Dead at 58.

"He was a good man," Gibbs said, his voice soft with respect.

"That he was." The pilot touched a spot over his heart. "Oorah."

Gibbs nodded. "Oorah."

"Oorah."

When the echo came from the co-pilot, Gibbs smirked. "So she talks, too?"

"There are only so many words to go around," she said. "I find the Captain tends to use them all up before I have a chance."

It was the first genuine laugh Gibbs had had in ages. "Well played, Lieutenant Reid."

"Don't listen to Butter Bar over here. She talks plenty. She's just been stunned into silence, being in the presence of a Marine legend." He had enough comedic timing to give it the perfect pause. "And for once, I'm not talking about me."

_Christ, here it comes_, Gibbs thought to himself. His adherence to Marine protocol stopped his inclination to tell the captain to shut it. He closed his eyes and waited for it.

Unaware of Gibbs' internal thoughts, Preston continued on. "Know who still holds the stalking record at LeJeune?" he asked Reid.

Gibbs wondered how long they had flown together, because she clearly knew the pilot would answer the question whether or not she answered. The air of patience she exuded belied the newness of the gold bar on her arm and he appreciated the presence.

"Gunny here," Preston answered, jerking his thumb in Gibbs' direction. "Nine outta 10 on the UKD. 97% on the stalks, too, right?"

"Yep," he flatly replied. "70 on the sketching, though. Can't draw for shit." He remembered someone who could, and it was her image that made him open his eyes.

"You know why he didn't get 10 perfect stalks?" Again, Reid let him play out the conversation. "Walker stepped on him on the last one."

Reid turned her head towards Gibbs. Though he couldn't see her eyes behind the dark visor, the tilt of her chin asked the question. He rewarded her quiet nature with an answer.

"Made the first shot and contact with the walker. The OP flashed the cards like he's supposed to; I identified 'em. OP guided the walker to my position but couldn't pin it down. Walker tripped over me. OP called it and docked me the points." The downturn in her mouth told him all he needed to know about how she felt about the outcome. "Don't worry about it. It was 40 years ago."

Preston called back, "Is it true the last cards they showed you said 'F.U.'?"

Reid couldn't help but laugh, and she apologized for the reaction. "Sorry."

"Rule 6," he automatically said. Realizing she would have no idea what he was talking about, he shook his head. "Not important. Yeah, the OP had a sense of humour back in those days."

"Forty years," Preston repeated to his partner. "You weren't even a twinkle in your old man's eye then."

The teasing reminded him of someone else he used to know and he couldn't help but ask. "You're not Italian by any chance, are ya?"

"With a name like 'Preston'?"

Gibbs conceded the point with a shrug. "You just remind me of someone."

Preston grinned. "Two dashing, good looking men with charming personalities?"

"Surprised the world hasn't imploded from the awesomeness. Sir." Reid was careful to inject just enough respect into her words, though it fooled neither man. One found it funnier than the other.

"Alright, alright," Preston said, "let's run down the basics."

Gibbs knew it was only a formality - none of them would've gotten into the heli without knowing exactly what was at stake, down to the letter, but he appreciated the attention to detail.

"Drop off's just outside Kopachi. We'd get you closer, but-"

He shrugged and Gibbs understood. It'd be easy enough to drop him right in Pripyat, if they actually wanted to draw attention to his presence. Unfortunately, the covertness of the mission required something less obvious and his knees moaned at the thought of the two hour walk.

Oblivious to Gibbs' discomfort, Preston went on. "Intel says Pripyat is closed to tourists for one day on some bullshit excuse about new radiation findings, so you've got a lot of time to get there, but you shouldn't have too much time to wait. You got the trigger?"

Gibbs knew he wasn't talking about his gun. Tapping the breast pocket that contained the signal switch that would bring his ride back, he grunted in the affirmative.

"We'll be a 30 minute fly away. We can pick you up wherever we get your signal, because by that point, the bad guys will've scurried away. Hopefully."

"Hopefully," Gibbs repeated. There was a hesitation in the pilot that made him narrow his eyes. Briefly forgetting his rank, he returned to his NCIS persona with a gruff, "Spit it out."

The insubordination went unmarked. Instead, Preston shrugged. "Just feels, I dunno. Hinky. The Russians and the Turks, trading an American hostage for arms? There's something there that's not right."

"Probably the bit about the target bein' the American," Gibbs suggested, knowing both pilots would have been briefed on the full mission.

"Yeah, I guess so. When it's one of our own, doesn't sit right."

"Well, maybe it'll help knowing the Russians want him because he's a double agent." His tone was sharp and cutting.

"You've studied the target?"

Gibbs snorted. "I would hope so. He was best man at my fourth wedding."

"Shit," Preston whistled. "How many times have you been married, Gunny?"

"Three times too many, Captain."

"Shit," he said again, this time with a chuckle.

"Almost there, sir," Reid said.

A clearing appeared in the distance, just over the trees.

"So, you know it's pretty safe," Preston said, "but the cemetary's still gauging off the charts. And stay away from the Café."

"I don't plan on getting that close," Gibbs replied.

Preston gestured to Gibbs' rifle with his chin. "M40?" The nod made him laugh. "You _are_ old school, aren't you? Navy's phasing those out with the Mark 13s. Adds almost 500 yards to your 8."

"A good shot can add 300 yards. Pretty sure I can work with 1100. Navy wants someone to do the job farther away, they can get the Canadians."

Reid pressed her lips together to suppress her amusement at his audacity. Preston scoffed.

"I still say they cheated."

"They're Canadian. They'd consider it impolite."

Reid's laugh escaped.

"We're here," Preston said. "Bring us down, Lieutenant."

Gibbs had his belt unclipped and his bag over his shoulder before the chopper had fully landed. He did one more inventory check, more out of habit than worry. Preston turned in his seat, hand extended. The concern from their previous conversation was still on his face.

"Be careful," was all he said. "Get in and out."

Gibbs returned the handshake and offered a small salute. "I plan on it." To Reid, he said, "Good talkin' to ya, LT."

She smiled at his dry humour and offered a salute of her own. "Gunnery Sergeant."

"That's a mouthful," Preston drawled. "Good luck, Gunny."

He only nodded, wanting to feel the ground under his feet and the mission started. He raised a hand when the heli started to rise, but didn't look back.

…..

He liked quiet. Spent a lot of time in his own head, whether in the field or in the office or in his basement. Kopachi welcomed his solitude with its own silence, as would the rest of his two hour walk through the near barren landscape. He knew some hearty farmers had stayed on after Chernobyl in '86, but he also knew they were going to be few and far between, and fewer still the closer he got to Pripyat. That was fine by him. The less chance of someone seeing him meant a greater chance of getting into the abandoned city without a problem.

Gravel crunched under his boots, the sediment being disturbed perhaps for the first time in 30 years. Pripyat got all the tourists; he wondered how many people ventured outside the zone. The grip on his gun was firm but relaxed, his blue eyes scanning leisurely but with intent. He stayed close to the natural blinds - the rocks, the trees, the elevations - and he kept his pace moderate. A movement caught his peripheral, and he immediately crouched.

"Shit," he whispered, not in apprehension but in realization.

A small fox tentatively poked its head from the brush, curiously looking at the new interloper.

"Keep goin'," Gibbs warned it.

The fox took the conversation as an invitation and stepped closer. Its nose raised, and its nostrils opened and closed, taking in Gibbs' scent. Finding some kind of safety in the smell, the fox darted towards him, then back again, turning to make sure Gibbs was watching.

"You are not playin' with me," he growled. "Go. Get outta here."

But the more Gibbs talked, the more the animal seemed to be interested. It wasn't deterred when Gibbs began stomping towards it; in fact, it took it as encouragement. Sighing, Gibbs crouched again, this time slinging his bag from his shoulder to the ground. He rummaged through the side pocket, then held up his find.

"If you get sick from this, don't come cryin' to me."

He closed his eyes and silently chastised himself for talking to an animal. Pulling away the packaging from the jerky, he tore off a piece and tossed it towards the fox who inched closer, sniffing the offering until suspicions were appeased. It chewed, swallowed, and looked up at Gibbs for more.

"No."

The word was barely out of his mouth when the fox's nose was right at his hand, finding the source of the meat.

"Hey!"

Startled by the tone, the fox jumped back and scurried up the path. At a safe distance, it turned and glanced back at Gibbs. He would have sworn the animal looked disappointed. Against his better judgment, he tore off another piece, but this time, put the rest back in his bag before holding out the meat as a peace offering. Unable to resist, the fox trotted up to Gibbs and delicately took the jerky out of his palm. It stayed long enough for Gibbs to touch its forehead with his fingertips, and he considered nature's ability to carry on. Brown eyes looked into his, then it was off again.

"You're welcome," he whispered, his voice laced with sarcasm.

…..

Though Intel speculation put the transfer somewhere around the Palace of Culture, Gibbs wasn't planning on getting that close, so rather than continue on into the city centre, he detoured in the direction of the Polissya hotel. By being Pripyat's tallest building, but also the farthest away from the centre, it served him with two purposes. He wasn't sure a heli could land on the roof, but a small rock outcrop 100 yards in the opposite direction would do if push came to shove. His first job was to clear the building. Despite the official tourist closure, it'd be dangerous to assume solo adventure seekers would follow suit. Ignoring the peeling paint and the smell, he cleared the floors one by one until he was on the roof. With a craftsman's eye, he determined it to be structurally sound, despite the holes that punched sunlight into the floor below him. Satisfied with his surroundings, he dropped down one floor and began setting up his position.

…..

Waiting was always the hardest part, both mentally and physically. Your brain was going a hundred miles an hour, anticipating the outcomes, playing and replaying them over and over, which only made your body tense up, the adrenaline teetering on its tipping point. Over the years, experience honed and curbed those impulses, but only replaced them with others. The alertness turned into a struggle with wandering, a near-boredom at being so aware of what not to do. The physical became a natural change with age, where older bones and muscles objected being in one position for any length of time longer than a football game. He could feel his hip bones protesting in concert with his pelvis, and he rolled up a blanket from his bag to relieve the pressure from the concrete underneath him. He had spread out a canvas drop cloth before setting up, but his body gladly reminded him he wasn't as young as he used to be.

_Speakin' to the choir._

If there was one good thing about a take-out mission in an abandoned city ravaged by the effects of nuclear fallout, it was the absolute lack of light. Even the moon decided against showing itself, leaving Pripyat under a blanket of nothingness that Gibbs appreciated. No lights meant he'd see any if they appeared. He didn't figure anything would happen that night, but if it did, it wouldn't be able to come into the city undetected; he'd literally see it coming a mile away. Still, he remained alert as the night bled into the morning.

…..

He was always happy when missions were over, because they gave him a sense of completion, and permission to move on to the next. Now, over 25 years since his last unofficial mission, his happiness would stem from being able to get up and move.

"_Not sure you've got the right guy for this," Gibbs said._

"_Oh? What makes you say that?"_

_Gibbs looked at the Secretary of Defense with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, 'Really?' _

_Crawford waved away the silent question. "You know the target. You speak Russian. You've done this before." He ticked off the reasons like a shopping list._

"_The target's gonna be shot, not interrogated. There's no one in Pripyat, Russian or otherwise. Last time I did this, I was 27 years younger."_

_His Director smirked. "You losing your touch, Special Agent Gibbs?" _

"_No." Gibbs shook his head. "But I'm not gettin' any younger."_

"_No," Crawford agreed. "But that's why this would be a great way to tie up a career."_

_Gibbs' narrowed his eyes at Crawford. "What?" He watched as the SoD and Director made eye contact. He hardened at being ambushed. "What?" he asked sharply._

_Vance shrugged, a vain attempt to relieve the situation. "You're coming up on 65, Jethro. Figured you could go out with a bang before we talk about your retirement plans."_

_His eyebrows touched his hairline even as his voice dropped into his stomach. Sitting stock still in the oversize leather chair, he let his trigger finger silently tap the fabric while he mulled over the implication._

_Crawford either didn't know or didn't care about the minefield he was walking on. "You could always finish that boat you've been working on."_

"_I've finished 4."_

_Vance stepped in quickly. "Listen. That's neither here nor there. Your government's asking you to do this. In fact, it's expecting you to do this. So let's talk about what happens next."_

"_Oo-rah," Gibbs bit out._

Preston hadn't been the only one to feel like the whole thing was 'hinky'. Gibbs had felt it from the start. The Turk angle was a red flag that wasn't spoken of in any of the classified information he was given, but he wasn't stupid. This wasn't going to be a simple shoot 'n' go.

_As if any of them are._

…..

The heavy jacket pulled out of the bag at 2AM did little to ward off the chill, and dreams of a hot bath only seemed to magnify the cold until he sternly told his brain to man up. Morning fog rolled in over the desolate city and with it came the first action since he'd arrived. His scope counted 6 Russian military vehicles coming in from the north, and 3 KrAZ 260 cargo trucks entering the city from the east. For a moment, Gibbs wondered how far back the ownership of the 260s would have to be traced before they came right back to the men in the six vehicle progression. Such was the back and forth trade of weapons and war. He cleared his mind of the thought and brought it back to its singular focus. The target was in one of the 260s. Anything beyond that was mental noise. He cinched the gun stock tighter into his shoulder.

The two groups parked a short distance from each other, both parties wary and alert as they disembarked and met in the middle. It didn't surprise Gibbs that his target was nowhere to be seen; he knew there was an expected feeling-out period before anything was promised. He watched as it played out: though he couldn't hear the words, he could almost imagine the suspicion barely masked by the professional courtesy. Gestures were made towards the big Russian vehicles, and several of the men peeled away from the group to have a look. The tarp was pulled away and Gibbs pulled in a sharp breath.

_Shit. There's the 'hinky'._

Instead of seeing Grails or Grouses or any number of other Russian SAMs expected in a hostage/weapons trade involving the Russians, Gibbs easily identified the weapons cache in the back of the truck.

_FIM-92 Stingers._

_American._

The feet on the ground didn't seem to care what nationality the weapons were, not that Gibbs had expected otherwise. Weapons were weapons, and if it would throw a political grenade into things if they were American, that was just gravy. Gibbs wondered how the CIA would respond, because there was no doubt they knew.

_Damn Spooks._

His scope moved towards the Turkish contingency that hovered back with their vehicles. A signal was shared with a snap of fingers, and a man was yanked out of the cab. With a pillowcase over his head and his hands tied behind his back, the man stumbled from the push on his shoulder, but stayed on his feet.

He got 10 feet when his captor yelled out, "Stop!"

Satisfied with the obedience, the captor motioned to have the cover removed from the man's head. Gibbs squinted into the scope.

'Hey, Bob,' he whispered. His scope adjustments were quick and precise, his eyes never leaving his target. Gently stroking the trigger, he rested his cheek against the stock, allowing his eye to get accustomed to the new space between it and the scope. A small inhale, held.

He expected his target to drop. He even expected some gunfire amid the newfound confusion. What he didn't expect was the sound of a Bora being fired into the crowd before he had a chance to set any of those things into motion.

_Turkish military sniper rifle_, his mind helpfully supplied. _Bolt action. 1200 yards. _

The distance was overkill, or it was intended to make up for the shooter's lack of precision, because based on the sound, he was much closer than 1200 yards. Gibbs watched as the shots dropped the Russians, one by one. Those left scrambling were retaliating by shooting the Turks. Through the mayhem, he kept his eye on his target who was now being hustled towards one of the trucks. His Russian chaperone didn't make it that far, the sniper cutting him off with a fatal shot. A calming wave flooded through him, even as the chaos appeared to escalate. The truck's door blocked any good sights, but the moment it closed, Gibbs took the shot.

The sound announced his presence, and almost comically, those left alive stopped and pointed randomly in his direction and began shooting, despite the distance. The M40A1's bolt slid back and was returned to its position with ease, as it had a 100 times in the past. The wood was warm against his cheek and he welcomed the comfort. He hadn't thought he'd need more than the one bullet, but caution had put the full 5 rounds into the slide, and he used them all in the minute given in the confusion. It was all he needed to clear the stragglers left in the chaos. All except the sniper. Gibbs began to reload his gun when he felt the bullet hit his helmet.

Everything went white. And loud. Very loud. Blood pounding, heart pumping, adrenaline flooding his system. He blinked sharply and pushed the bolt into place. His mind fragmented clues together until he almost grinned.

_The damn ferris wheel._

He had cleared the building but hadn't thought of clearing the city centre. The sniper had been there the entire time, perhaps days, perhaps minutes before Gibbs had arrived. He didn't bother to wipe away the blood he felt trickling in his eye; it wasn't his shooting eye. His scope swooped around the wheel in the amusement park, going to the buckets he would have chosen himself. Third one was the charm.

Had he found him on the second guess, he might have gotten his shot off before being spotted. Still, he'd take some measure of pride in knowing he got the shot off anyway.

Of course he'd been shot before. Stabbed. Choked. Beaten. Scars, both physical and mental to prove it. So the pain that was currently coursing through his body and brain wasn't entirely new. But it did feel different. He rolled onto his back and tried to breathe with lungs that protested the effort. The sun that came through the holes in the roof warmed his face and he closed his eyes. He frowned when a cloud blocked the light.

"Wish I'd had one of those," a voice said, tapping his helmet. "Then again, I would've looked pretty stupid standing on the roof with that on my head."

He willed his eyes open at the sound he would have recognized in a crowd. It wasn't a cloud blocking the sun, but a solid form standing over him.

"Kate?"

…..

Longer, Random Notes: I must have been going through some Sasha Alexander withdrawals, because this story came to me quicker than any other story I've written. I think I also wanted to write a character study on Gibbs; he's a year away from retirement, and I wonder what a man like him thinks of it. I also don't think we got a satisfactory Gibbs/Kate closure episode, at least not to my liking! I spot-watched what I thought would be important episodes after season 2, so I hope I did the characters some justice. 'Butter bar' is military slang for Second Lieutenant, due to the gold bar they wear above their insignia. I usually have music on for background noise, but this fic was a little different. As mentioned, "Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night is the main song, but the 'soundtrack' while I was writing included "Feelin' Alright" by Joe Cocker, "Conquistador" by Procol Harum, "5th Avenue Heartache" by The Wallflowers, and "In Violet Light" by The Tragically Hip. The title comes from Tesla's "What You Give". Do check out the Wikipedia page for the United States Marine Corps Scout Sniper (Phases of Training) for really interesting info on some of the stuff Preston and Gibbs discuss. Finally, my thanks to my own 'co-pilot' who, without knowing a single thing about the show, gladly beta'd it, thus making it infinitely better.


	2. Chapter 2

…..

He took her offered hand and pulled himself up. The pain he expected to come never did.

"Am I dead?"

She shrugged. "I'm here. Your body's there." She tilted her head towards the floor where he lay. "You're definitely somewhere in between."

Despite the lack of physical form, he staggered to the nearest wall and sat against it. His eyes squinted into the distance.

"He's not going to make it," she said, answering an unspoken question. "Bullet hit the collarbone, just like yours. But his is a through and through."

He couldn't see the ferris wheel well enough at that distance without a scope; still, his eyes glinted in victory. "Prick." Her description of the injury brought his hand up to his shoulder.

"You don't bring any of that with you," she explained, seeing his confusion at the lack of blood. She tapped her unmarred forehead like a punctuation.

"So I _am_ dead."

Chuckling, she replied, "Considering you wrestled life to the ground any time it tried to take away control, I'm not sure why death would be any different. Something tells me you'll have the final say. You always did."

"I've got a choice?" He scoffed at the idea.

"It's more than some of us got."

He closed his eyes to will away the images conjured by the words. A joke punctuated by tragedy. A smile erased. A light extinguished. He stamped out the emotion and replaced it with sawdust.

"So what? You're here to tell me to fight it? That I got so much left to live for? What?"

"I'm not sure why I'm here, Gibbs. You're the one who brought me into this." She sat beside him. "And for the record, the last time you did, you had me married to Tony. Really?"

Gibbs rested his head against the wall. "Three failed marriages; never said I was the world's greatest matchmaker."

"It's that how you really saw things turning out?"

New images floated across his eyes, and these ones he let himself have, even for a moment.

"No," was all he could manage to say.

She opened her mouth to reply but seemed to think better of it. "Yeah, well, let's not do that again, okay?"

His chin turned towards her. "I like your hair."

The ponytail threaded through her fingers and she pulled it around to look at the fair colour. "Not a redhead," she commented. "But I like it."

"Never pictured you a redhead," he confessed. "Never needed to."

She didn't question the cryptic reply. Instead, she brushed her fingers over his ear and behind his head. "High and tight." The descriptor was almost a purr. "Can I make a confession? It was always my favourite."

Turning his gaze to the bank of broken windows, he said, "Figured it was appropriate."

Though her focus appeared to be on tracing his hairline behind his ear, her mind was obviously focusing on his words, because it didn't take long for her fingers to still. "You didn't think you were coming back."

He shrugged without feeling any pain. "I never think I'm comin' back. Hazard of the job."

"No," she shook her head, amazement splashed across her face, "that's not it. You know I'm in your head, right?" A noncommittal grunt was his only reply, so she repeated her soft accusation. "You didn't think you were coming back."

He shrugged again and this time punctuated it with a sigh. "Mission didn't ever feel quite right," he said. "I knew somethin' was off. "

"Hinky."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah. Hinky. Spooks had to know the Russians were tradin' American weapons to the Turks."

Her gaze followed his. "You think they knew about the sniper?"

"Maybe."

"Think they set up the ambush?"

His eyes narrowed as they turned back to her. "You really are in my head, aren't you?"

"That, and I was a damn good agent."

"That you were."

"I guess we'll find out when someone sends a clean-up crew."

"Yep."

She looked at the body on the floor for a long time. "You might not be stuck in a bucket, but that's a bleed-out wound, too," she said, tapping her own shoulder.

He had gotten his shot off, but not before the sniper's second imbedded itself just below his collarbone. The blood bloomed under his uniform like a dark red flower. Despite knowing the evidence wouldn't there, he touched his forehead where the first shot glanced off his helmet but pierced enough to draw blood.

"Didn't account for the wind," he said. "Two shots to his right."

"Amateur," Kate replied with a lightness to her accusation.

"Sniper rifle with a 1200 yard capability, shootin' from 300 yards? Ya think?"

"Probably saved your life, though. I mean, if he had been a better shot-" She let the unspoken remain that way. When he grunted a reply, she quietly asked, "Why haven't you triggered the pickup signal?" He didn't answer. "Gibbs?"

"He's gonna bleed out in that ferris wheel," he said with satisfaction. "Asshole." Another minute passed before he said, "They want me to retire, Kate."

She slowly nodded her understanding. "Ah. You know, you always used to say you'd rather die than retire. I just thought you were joking." She ignored his scowl. "What does Tony think of it?"

"Tony's gone."

Her eyes widened in shock. "What?" She looked around.

"He's not dead," he clarified. "Just moved on."

The tension left her body and she sagged against the wall. "Jesus, Gibbs. Don't scare me like that. I'm not ready for DiNozzo." The joke brought a small measure of amusement to his face, though it was brief.

"Abby's gone, too."

"I see."

"See what?"

She changed position to sit cross-legged between his splayed boots. Rather than answer the question, she asked one of her own. "They wouldn't just put you out to pasture. You're too good for that. So what's the plan?"

"Hadn't gotten that far in the topic." A thin bitter edge wound through his otherwise flat reply. "Desk duty." His grimace said everything. "Maybe LeJeune."

"An OP?" she grinned. "Not a chance. No one would graduate."

"You know what an OP is?"

Her grin grew to a full blown smile. "I knew all about you before you got on board Air Force One, Gunny. I always wondered how many black sharpies they went through to keep your file confidential."

He smiled, too, though it didn't last nearly as long as hers. "You know about LeJeune."

"Yes," she drew her confusion out slowly.

"You know about me bein' there."

"Yes." The confusion was clearing, his line of questioning taking them to an uncomfortable truth.

"I was 22. How far back did you go?" He asked the question but didn't need her to answer. Her face said it all. "Shit. You knew the whole time. About Shannon. And Kelly."

There was no point in denying it. "Of course I did, Gibbs."

"You never said."

"Neither did you. When I realized no one else knew-" Her voice trailed off. "Give me some credit."

"I never gave you enough." The honest admission brought a short quiet between them until Gibbs deflected the confession with a begrudging grin. "You knew the whole time," he repeated. "Shoulda known, Secret Service."

The nickname was rewarded with a laugh, and Gibbs decided he was going to let the sound warm him instead of wondering if it was really happening. Over the years, her absence had become a constant, like the ache in his knees, something that just was, that no amount of bourbon or painkiller could numb. It was a knot in his heart that he had learned to breathe around, even if every inhale hurt like hell. In typical fashion, he used the burn to close the case, win the battle, cross the finish line, get to the end of the day. To consume him. Lately though, the fire had grown cold, no matter how much the Kate-shaped hole inside him burned.

"So why me?"

Her voice startled him.

"What?"

Oblivious to her actions, she untied one of his boots while she pondered her own question.

"I mean, without sounding incredibly morbid, you've got a lot of people who could be sitting here." Glancing around at her position between his legs, she made a small correction. "Well, maybe not right here. But you know what I mean. Shannon. Kelly. Jackson. Franks. So, why me?"

How could he tell her she was every regret he'd ever had?

"Oh." Her voice was soft and small.

"Get outta my head, would ya Kate?" He closed his eyes and not for the first time, wondered why the right words failed him at the wrong time. He tried another combination of words. "I made right by them, I guess."

Those seemed to work better because she nodded with affection. "All this for me?"

"Well, I hadn't planned on gettin' shot." The retort was tempered with a soft smirk that she mirrored.

"You know, there's nothing to regret. I knew the risks of the job."

"You saved my life that day."

"That? Oh, Gibbs. That was the _reward_ of the job."

The tears that pricked his eyes were pushed down with a hard swallow. "Shoulda been me. Not you." When she leaned back on her palms to scrutinize him, he saw the woman she could have been and he swallowed again.

"You know, 'You don't waste good' doesn't always have to apply to other people, Gibbs. Sometimes, it can apply to you, too."

The phrase, so much Shannon's, rolled off her lips like it had been hers all along and it took his breath away. The wisdom behind the rest of her words reminded him of someone else.

"Profilers. All the damn same."

The realization showed in a slow nod. "That explains the hair."

"It's not like that," he said. "You two are nothin' alike."

"Nothing?" she repeated, then pretended to give it some thought. "Other than being intelligent, direct, independent and an all-around ass kicker?"

"You forgot 'humble'," he drawled. "Besides, I knew you weren't a natural brunette."

With narrowed eyes, she contemplated his confidence. "You knew nothing." Silence was his reply. "You knew nothing," she repeated with less assurance. "Gibbs!" His chuckle was warm honey, and she slapped his chest in retaliation. "Bastard."

"I miss you."

Sometimes, he _could_ get the words just right.

"Every goddamn day. Doesn't matter how many times they change up the office. I look over at that desk-" He almost growled the words. "Had to stop going to DC Beans because the barista kept givin' me your goddamn excuse for a coffee and I didn't have the heart to tell her to stop. It's been fifteen years, an' the first coffee I bring Jack is cream an' sweetener when I know, I _know, _she only takes sugar."

"Coffee for the new girl, huh?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged. "You use coffee like other men use pick up lines." His glare did nothing to curb her amusement. "Just tell me one thing: did you say 'please'?"

"I'm dyin' and this is what I get."

"You're not dying." She followed his glance to his prone body. "I mean, okay, so it looks bad. I'm no doctor but I was around Ducky enough to figure you've got a good 45 minutes before it starts looking _really_ bad. Thirty minutes for the pick up. You've got time." She squeezed his knees in reassurance.

"All the time in the world," he whispered. "Used to feel that way. Not anymore." He allowed himself to enjoy her gentle touch. "You know, ya made that list of people who coulda been here besides you, and I realized how long that list really is. It's only gettin' longer. I'm losin' more people than I'm leavin' behind."

"Not sure it's fair to weigh the people you lost against the people you have, Gibbs. Reality never measures up to memories. Besides, do you want to be one of the people _they_ lose?" He pulled his head back at being confronted with the question. "What did I say earlier?"

He didn't have to ask what she meant. "'You don't waste good'."

"Yes," she nodded, "and that it applies to you, too."

"They'd be fine without me." It was said as a statement of fact, not self-pity.

"Sure," she nodded again. "They'd be fine. But they wouldn't be the same." He tried to scoff his way out of the corner he was in, but she was having none of it. "Are you? I mean, you're putting cream and sweetener in the new girl's coffee, fifteen years later."

He turned his face away. "So I gotta live forever, is that it?"

A hardness took over her face. Slapping his chest with more force than the first time, she said, "Don't be an ass. Or maybe you wouldn't have wanted an extra day with Kelly if you had known then what you know now. Or your dad. Or me."

His head whipped back to face her. "Stop." A beat passed between them. "Please."

The magic word, uttered so infrequently by Gibbs softened her edges and she squeezed his knees again. His eyes closed.

"I like her, by the way. The new girl. Jack." One eye cracked open. "I'm pretty sure she likes you." The eye closed. "And you _definitely_ like her." Both eyes opened into a scowl and she laughed. Tapping his forehead, she reminded him of their connection with a wink.

With a deep sigh, he squeezed his eyes shut and said, "I'm so tired, Kate."

The multiple meanings layered in the simple confession weren't lost on her. "I know, Gibbs."

They sat quietly, and he wondered if she had run out of things to say or if she still knew, after all these years, that he responded more to fewer words. For a while, they watched as the life slowly and literally seeped into the cold concrete under his body, until his attention turned back to her. His eyes traced over her profile as if he hadn't done the same thing a hundred times when she was alive. He marvelled at the mind's ability to adapt in a way that kept her image very nearly the same, but still took the time to add small age lines around her eyes and mouth. He wished his heart could have adapted so easily. She jumped slightly at his touch. Calloused fingertips turned her chin towards him and he brushed aside an errant strand of hair. His touch conveyed all that ever was and all that would never be. He tried to memorize the feel of her lips when she pressed them into his palm, the warmth of her cheek in his hand, the softness of her eyes as they briefly fluttered shut.

"I would've broken Rule 12 for you, Katie," he whispered.

Her eyes opened and smiled at the nickname. "I know you would have. Jethro."

A kind of weight lifted at the use of his Christian name and he, too, smiled. If the feel of her lips against his palm needed to be memorized, the feel against his own demanded to be burned into his subconscious. Fingertips, so unlike his, softly dusted along his hairline, down his cheek, ending at his chin. She pulled back, winked, then sat beside him, her arm looped around his, her head against his shoulder.

Jerking her chin at his body on the floor, she asked, "So, what's the plan?"

He weighed the scales with a deep breath through his nose and a clenched jaw. Her hair tickled his cheek and her scent teased his nostrils and he never wanted to leave.

"Sorry, Kate."

…..


	3. Chapter 3

…..

She hated hospitals. There was something in the way the antiseptic smell came to mean death that she could barely stand it. When it involved someone she cared about, it only magnified the assault on her senses. She steeled herself from the dread and stepped into the room. A startled nurse glanced up from her notes.

"Jacqueline Sloane," she said, hoping to put the nurse at ease. "I'm a friend of Special Agent Gibbs."

The nurse, whose name tag said 'Megan', nodded and smiled. "You were here when they brought him in."

Jack appreciated the young woman's memory; she had little recollection of that day except for the never-ending shortness of breath she seemed to have when she saw him wheeled into the IC.

"Yes," was all she could say.

Unaware of Jack's emotional agitation, the nurse referred to her chart and smiled. "He's coming along fine. Minor shoulder surgery but no permanent damage. Dr. Hughes has him on a concussion watch due to the bullet impact, but again, that's nothing to worry about."

"A lot less blood since the last time I saw him," she said, her voice wavering under her attempt at humour. "Why is he still under?"

Megan leaned forward and whispered from the side of her mouth. "Rumour has it, the patient is refusing his painkillers and has been - shall we say - prickly with the night staff."

"Sounds about right."

"When he refused his last dose, Nurse Brighton administered it through the IV. According to the charts, she may have given him just a little extra. But don't worry," she quickly added, aware of how it sounded. "It was nothing outside the recommended dosage."

Jack waved away the concern. "If he's half as stubborn a patient as he is a man, it was probably no less than what he deserved." She touched the woman's arm. "Thank you."

The door quietly shut behind the nurse, leaving Jack alone with chair she scraped to the bed seemed magnified in the silent room, but he didn't stir. In fact, beyond the bandage wrapped around his head, he looked almost peaceful. She wondered how long it had been, how many years since he had last rested. Her introspection was interrupted by the door re-opening. A tall man whose face niggled on the edge of her memory stopped halfway in. His eyes took in the moment before he spoke.

"You must be Kate."

She blinked her surprise and confusion. "Sorry?"

He seemed to immediately recognize his error because he repeated her question as a statement. "Sorry. I just saw you two and-" He glanced at her fingers that had interlocked with Gibbs'. "To no one's surprise, put my size 13s into it." He held out his hand. "John Preston."

She returned his gesture with her free hand. "Jacqueline Sloane." The realization lit up her eyes. "Captain John Preston. You brought Gibbs in. You and your partner saved his life."

He deflected the comment. "He triggered the signal. We just picked him up." Glancing at Gibbs, Preston allowed himself a small smile. "Literally."

Jack tilted her head to encourage him to continue, and he realized she didn't know. He gestured to a chair and waited for her to nod before he pulled it beside her.

"The signal was easy enough to pick up, what with him being in the tallest building in-" He abruptly stopped.

"Pripyat," she finished for him. Seeing his raised eyebrow, she said, "Pulled some Army favours to find that one out. Didn't find out much more."

She didn't bother asking him what Gibbs was doing in an abandoned Russian city, knowing she wouldn't get an answer. He silently acknowledged her understanding with a small dip of his head.

"Anyway, getting there was the easy part. Landing the bird on the roof was a small challenge but barely broke a sweat. Getting him out? That was the problem." He looked down at his clasped hands. "We got the signal at 09:00 and were there by the bottom of the hour. Sat in the bird for 10 minutes before we knew something was off. Left my LT in charge to go look for him."

"No man left behind."

"Got that right," he agreed with conviction. "Funny thing was, he was right below us. Laying on his back, hand still on his gun. I didn't think he-" Preston bit the inside of his cheek. "Didn't think he was alive, to be honest. But I checked anyway. Scared the absolute shit out of me when he grabbed my wrist. Looked at me, clear as day, and said, 'Tell Kate I'm sorry'. Then he was out again. Threw him over my shoulder, grabbed his gun, and brought him back to the chopper."

"You saved his life," Jack repeated.

"Well, my partner's also a medic, so in the end, she saved his life."

Jack shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Thank you. Thank you both."

They watched Gibbs' chest silently rise and fall and the only sound in the room was the faint ECG beeping out a comforting rhythm.

"So," Preston said, "who's Kate?" He quickly diffused any potential awkwardness by adding, "I sort of made a promise."

Rather than answer the question, Jack asked one of her own. "Why did you think I was Kate?"

Preston shrugged. "The way he said it, it seemed like the most important thing in the world for me to get that message to her. And you look like you'd be someone important to him."

She looked back at Gibbs. Of course she had read his file, learned the history of the team, knew of the losses. The first genuine smile in days flashed across her face.

"He really said 'sorry', huh?"

"Yep. I take it that's a unicorn sighting?"

The smile grew. "Yeah." Knowing the man deserved some kind of explanation, she said, "I only know of one Kate - Special Agent Kate Todd."

"Why do I get the feeling this story doesn't end well?"

"Killed in the line of duty," she replied. "Saving his life."

He sat back and blew out a long breath. "Shit."

"Yeah." She rubbed her thumb over Gibbs' knuckles, almost unaware of what she was doing. "It's not uncommon. To have the experience of seeing someone during a traumatic event. Our brains often use the memories of dead loved ones to get us through things we can't parse on our own."

"I saw my grandfather when I got shot down in the Gulf," he confessed.

She nodded and pressed her lips together. "Afghanistan," she said without elaborating. "My mother got me through when I thought I didn't have another day in me."

They quietly accepted the commonalities very few would understand. After several minutes, he slapped his knees and stood.

"Guess my work here's done. Sort of."

She also stood, relinquishing the hold she had on Gibbs' hand for the first time since Preston arrived. Holding it out, she shook his hand and laid her left over their hands.

"Thank you. Again." When he tried to deflect it again, she gripped harder. "I mean it."

"Don't argue with her, Three Dog Night."

They both spun back to the bed where Gibbs was slowly coming to. Despite his closed eyes, his grin showed a sign of life that seemed to bring air into the room.

"Well, if it isn't Salty Dog gracing us with his presence." Preston snarked, though his smile gave him away. "Good to see you back in the land of the living, Gunny."

"I'm sure I'll say the same once this damn headache goes away." Jack was immediately at his side when she saw he was struggling to sit up. "And this pain in my shoulder." His eyes sent a silent question Preston's way.

"Intel said they found him in the bucket," he cryptically replied, and Gibbs nodded. "You can read the rest once you're out of here."

"Which could be as soon as tomorrow, if the doctor clears you." Jack answered the question before Gibbs could ask it. She was fussing with his blankets and she chastised herself for the needless fidgeting. "Sorry, Gibbs."

The words sparked a memory that flashed across his face. Preston must have caught it, because he feigned a cough.

"Yeah, that's not in the report, Gunny."

"I appreciate it, Captain."

"We'll talk about it sometime over a good bourbon. My old man had a stash hidden in the garage, the wily bastard."

Gibbs appreciated the invitation and the things left unsaid. "I look forward to it."

"I'll invite Lt. Reid," he said, injecting some humour into the moment. "I think she's got a bit of a crush on you. Must be something about the strong silent type."

"I'd roll my eyes if I didn't think it would hurt my head too much," Gibbs groused.

Preston laughed. "Good to see you, Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs." He turned to Jack. "Make sure he drags you to that bourbon invitation, Special Agent Sloane."

She shook his hand one last time. "Please. It's 'Jack'. And there won't be much dragging needed."

She stared at the door long after he was gone, so long in fact that Gibbs called out her name.

"Jack?"

"Hmmm?" She turned to the bed. "Sorry. Just- I'm just glad you're okay."

"That it?"

"It's just hard, being on the other end of not knowing, you know?" She stood by his side and was startled when he took her hand. "Being in the military, I'm usually the one leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where I'm going or what I'm doing. Always thought the term 'need to know' explained everything. It doesn't. The team asked about you and I couldn't tell them anything, not because I swore to keep a secret but because I didn't know."

"You don't like that."

"No, I don't. I mean, I understand it."

"Doesn't mean you have to like it."

"No."

He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Spit it out."

"What?"

"There's somethin' else rattlin' around your head. Spit it out."

She contemplated her options but knew in the end, she could only ever be truthful with him. "Preston thought I was Kate." His caress stopped, but he didn't pull away. Still, it was enough to make her backtrack. "We don't have to talk about it."

"No, we don't." He waited until her eyes met his. "But we should. Just-" He looked around the room and made a face. "Can we not do it here?"

Getting that much out of him was tantamount to a confession, and she recognized the vulnerability in his question. Daringly, she brought his hand up and pressed it to her lips.

"Of course. We've got all the time in the world."

The words, which should have been cold shrapnel to his heart, were warmed by her smile and unspoken promises.

"Yeah," he agreed, believing it for the first time in years.

…..

-end.


End file.
